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your good friend Bernadette?”
    They were graphic pictures. Harris had seen them. Cal Benton copulating with a very young, inexperienced, beautiful Congressional aide in the bedroom he and his wife had once shared. They were the kind of scenes that would not only ruin him, but the aide and Bernadette. Her authority in the courtroom would be diminished with those images in people’s heads.
    But Cal hadn’t cooperated with Jesse Lambert for noble reasons—or even just to protect himself. He liked living on the edge. Jesse had seen that quality in him and used it to his advantage, luring Cal into his world of blackmail, extortion and fraud.
    “I played Jesse’s game,” Cal said. “Now I’m pushing back, hard, because that’s all he’ll understand. You don’t fool me, Harris. You don’t give a damn about my sainted ex-wife.”
    “What do you want from me?”
    “I want you to stop talking to the FBI.”
    “I haven’t told them anything of substance—”
    “Good. Don’t.” Cal gave him a long look. “You can’t weaken. You can’t waver. Stick with me, Harris. I know what I’m doing.”
    “No, you don’t.” Harris couldn’t remember when he’d felt so tired. “You don’t have a clue.”
    Cal sniffed with impatience. “Go into hiding, then. Leave Jesse to me.”
    “I already have gone into hiding. I just—tonight…” He broke off, not knowing how to explain his actions. “No one knows where I’m staying.”
    “Rook?”
    Harris shook his head. “No one.”
    Cal slumped in his chair in relief. “That’s good, Harris. Excellent.”
    “My advice, still, is to give Jesse his money and the dossier you have on him.”
    “He won’t know if I’ve made copies of the information—if I have it all stored in my head. No, we’ve done what we’ve done, Harris. I have his money, and I have enough to put him away for decades. He’ll cooperate.”
    Harris didn’t think so.
    But Cal was on his feet. “Go, Harris. Leave Jesse to me.” He smiled, his arrogance and confidence back. “Hide.”
    Harris didn’t respond, and Cal left, not so much as glancing into the coffee shop as he passed by the window on the street outside. Harris remembered himself in court, holding the attention and respect of everyone present. He’d squandered his reputation—that life—because of weakness, greed and the constant search for excitement. But he’d learned a few things during those years. He could recognize a violent man when he saw one.
    And Jesse Lambert, he thought, was a violent man.
     
    Twenty minutes later, Harris stepped out of a cab in front of the shabby rooming house on a bad street in southeast Washington. He’d fled here last night after his meeting with Andrew Rook, terrified of the consequences of his own actions. Harris had fought a sense of impending doom all day. It was what had driven him to the Georgetown bar. His fear had made him careless.
    The odor of fresh dog excrement permeated the hot, humid night air. What the hell was wrong with people, not cleaning up after their pets? With a hiss of disapproval, Harris unlocked the separate entrance to his small studio apartment, in an ell off the run-down main building. He could hear someone vomiting down the street. Thanks to the smart management of a family trust by a financial advisor who loathed him, Harris remained in possession of a beautiful home on a prestigious street in Georgetown. But he couldn’t go back there, at least not for now.
    He pushed open the door, then shut it tight behind him, blocking out the vomiting, the cars, the heat, the smell. He caught his breath, letting the cool air and his isolation soothe his taut nerves. He could ignore the seedy furnishings.
    “Feeling sorry for yourself, Harris?”
    Harris swung around as if he had heard a ghost. Or had he imagined the voice?
    The devil’s voice.
    “I’d feel sorry for myself if I were you,” the hidden intruder went on, his voice deadly calm and familiar.
    Jesse